


There’s Nothing Like a Romance in a Zombie Apocalypse

by PsychicBananaSplit



Series: There's Nothing Like a Romance in a Zombie Apocalypse [1]
Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Abandonment, Absent Parents, Abusive Parents, Abusive Relationships, Alternate Universe - Zombie Apocalypse, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Awkward Tension, Awkwardness, BAMF Maxine "Max" Mayfield, Billy Hargrove Has a Crush on Steve Harrington, Billy Hargrove Is Bad at Feelings, Billy Hargrove Needs a Hug, Billy and Jonathan bonding time, Billy just doesn't want to hurt Steve, Brief Mention of Suicide, Canon Era, Child Abandonment, Child Neglect, Childhood Memories, Childhood Trauma, Dogs, Everyone Needs A Hug, Good Babysitter Steve Harrington, Good Sibling Maxine "Max" Mayfield, Guns, Homophobic Language, Hunters & Hunting, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Internalized Homophobia, Lucid Dreaming, Mild Smut, Minor Violence, Multi, Passive-aggression, Past Relationship(s), Period-Typical Homophobia, Physical Abuse, Protective Billy Hargrove, Running Away, Shitty childhoods, Shooting Guns, Slow Burn, Smut, Steve Harrington Needs a Hug, Suicidal Thoughts, Tension, Thanksgiving, Underage Smoking, Unhealthy Relationships, Unresolved Emotional Tension, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Verbal Abuse, as of now, shitty parents
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-10
Updated: 2019-10-18
Packaged: 2020-08-14 12:09:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20192041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PsychicBananaSplit/pseuds/PsychicBananaSplit
Summary: The apocalypse was both Billy’s worst nightmare and his saving grace. It was the same when Max rolled around. Then her flock of little shits.And their babysitter, and, for his life, he can’t remember his fucking name, so, when he runs out of bullets in the middle of a fucking Hoard of the undead, he says:“Pretty boy, got any ammo over there?” Pretty boy. What the fuck was he thinking?





	1. Running, Running, Running.

**Author's Note:**

> i have so many unfinished projects, i should stop. s t o p i t.  
this whole thing is basically what happens after i have a whole day by myself.  
the title comes from a song i'm writing. you ca n t s t e al it
> 
> Through the Valley - Shawn James

Billy was taught how to use a gun when he was five, and his mom was terrified out of her mind. Always. Forever. He didn’t understand at the time. Why would he want to shoot someone? He could use his fist much better than spending the time to check the safety and the ammunition and all that shit.

“Just in case,” his mom had said, “anything happens when I’m gone.”

Billy cocked his head in confusion. “Where are you going?”

A watery smile bloomed on her face. She wiped away tears as she took the bullets out of the gun. “Somewhere nice. Somewhere sunny and warm. You’ll find me.”

Billy remembers that day at the beach. Sunny and warm. He was trying to surf. He swallowed too much seawater for his liking. “But,  _ here  _ it’s sunny and warm.”

She looked him in the eye and smiled again. “You’ll find me.”

California didn’t stay sunny and warm for long.

“I didn’t raise a  _ faggot  _ of a son!” 

“What are you, a  _ pussy?” _

“What did you do this time, you little bitch?”

And others. Shouted at him for his entire life, and he can’t remember a single  _ fucking  _ thing he did. Maybe he talked back a few times. Maybe he caused some trouble at school. He didn’t do anything else, though.

Nothing else.

More than once, his hands itched to ball into fists or reach for his gun but he remembers that he can’t do anything to stop  _ him.  _ Stop him from punching him, shoving him into a door and slamming it on his hand, breaking all the bones in his fingers with a few hard strikes. On bad nights, when he had one or twenty drinks after too many, Billy would come out of it half dead, beaten black and blue and crying because what else can anyone do in that situation?

_ Do something!  _ He shouted at himself.  _ Yell, kick, punch, do something! Run away! Call the cops!  _

No cops, his father had growled. On a bad night. He had just left him, left Billy on the floor, bleeding from more places than just his forehead and nose.  _ No cops, or I’ll fuckin’  _ kill  _ you, you hear me boy? I’ll fuckin’  _ slaughter  _ you! I’ll hunt you down and punch the lights outta you!  _ He spat a glob of white in the broken boy’s direction and walked off to his room.

Billy was limping the next day. Told everyone he was in a  _ bar fight, shoulda seen the other guy, haha!  _

He had to fight to keep the bloody cracked-tooth smile on his face.

_ Sunny and warm, my ass. _

Max and her mom, Susan, came around, and Billy was  _ pissed.  _

He wasn’t angry at  _ them,  _ per se, he was angry that they had decided to live with his  _ dad.  _ The person that did horrible things to him and will probably do horrible things to them as well.

But despite his warnings, his fighting, even his random outbursts of violence to chase them  _ away, god, why don’t you go away?  _

They stayed. 

“Fucking morons,” he scoffed, and lit another cigarette.

The apocalypse came sooner than anyone expected. A virus outbreak, infecting people, killing people.  _ Resurrecting people.  _ On a Friday, everyone in his class was there, intact, complaining about school and all the more ready for the weekend, and  _ boom.  _ The next Monday, half, if not  _ more,  _ were  _ dead. Gone.  _ Reduced to another statistic, another body in the ground. In that small city by the beach, word and sickness spread around and before he knew it, zombies were digging themselves out of their own graves. He went  _ shit, Dad, we have to leave, Susan’s already dead, it could be us,  _ but in his drunken state Neil Hargrove stayed, yelling at his son for being a piece of chickenshit for running away. 

For having common  _ sense.  _ People were filing out of their home anyway. So, he packed his bags, made Max pack hers, because he can’t just  _ leave her with him, he has at least half a brain,  _ and took off in his blue Camaro. 

The image of the terrified, teary face on Max, and the image of his father shaking his arms and screaming at him to  _ get back here, you piece of motherfucking shit!  _ Will be forever in his mind. 

Billy drove for eleven hours straight, which, looking back on it, probably wasn’t the best idea he’s ever had. He was lucky enough to have remembered to pack the atlas behind the driver’s seat, and that, indeed, helped with getting to Salt Lake City.

Again, driving across the entire state of Nevada was not the smartest idea to ever form itself in his mind.

He doesn’t recall Max ever saying that she needed to stop anywhere; maybe she hadn’t. Anyway, he’s told her sorry about the whole ordeal, and she just says  _ no, Billy, I should be sorry,  _ and he says back  _ what for? _

Max bit her lip and refrained from answering.

Once they reached the city they stopped by an abandoned Casey’s to grab food and drinks and ice, as they had an empty cooler in the trunk and they needed more than bread and jerky. It was apparent that survivors had raided the place; fridges were left open, candy hooks were on their last legs, and there was no cash in sight. Also, booze. There was no alcohol in the place.

They stocked up on bread and jerky, for emergencies, as well as plenty of water. They got ice that, miraculously, wasn’t melted, and went through all the packaged meat and processed cheeses. Max was disappointed that the Slurpee machine was broken and/or empty, but a stolen pair of sunglasses made up for her dismay. 

Is it even called stealing anymore?

There was a small amount of pocket knives left in the back of the store, and Billy had one already, but he took the rest; just in case. He gave a blue one to Max, knowing she would sneer at the pink one, and she smiled the first smile since the day he met her. 

He made sure to leave with a full gas tank and a few packs of cigarettes.

They drove for a few more hours, the sun falling behind the horizon. Billy stopped somewhere in Wyoming to take a rest, closing his eyes to doze off and being woken from the deepest and most peaceful sleep he’s ever had by Max screaming that there are zombies,  _ zombies, everywhere! _

And she wasn’t kidding.

A pack of the swarming half-skinned faces and maggot-crawling intestines, torn, broken hands reaching out for purchase. He scrambled for the gearshift, twisting the key and letting the car roar to life before craning his head behind him to speed out--backwards. 

He doesn’t remember all the details; the adrenaline of the moment blacking out all the driving and the yelling of  _ oh, fuck, fuck, fucking shit!  _

_ _ They drove, drove, drove until the gas was running low and a 7-Eleven was conveniently placed near their location in, where? Did they cross the state border yet?

Goddamnit, why didn’t either of them take a look at the map?

Oh, yeah, fucking  _ zombies.  _

After filling their gas tank and hopping behind the counter to empty the money box, stray dollar bills and quarters littering the ground, Billy took a glance at his own real silver, engraved lighter, then took another one at the overturned shelf of Bic lighters on the counter.

_ “Boy, you hold this to your stomach for two minutes, you can have it.” One of his dad’s friends from the Navy flicked open the lighter, the flame’s reflecting sheen dancing with the wind blowing the fire around. _

_ His dad was glaring at him. Then at his friend with the lighter. Billy could smell the frustration radiating off his body, but the look in his eye was unexpected; slight panic. He knew his son could do it; he wasn’t a pussy. _

_ The friend’s smiled bared larger, and he laughed. “Better yet, you can have my car. You hold this to your stomach for two minutes, you can have this and my car, boy. The blue Camaro.” _

_ Needless to say, he held the heat above his belly button for two minutes, maybe more, without screaming once. The look on the friend’s face wasn’t unwelcome; almost, perhaps, respect? Admiration? Nostalgia? He couldn’t quite identify it, even as he rolled out of the driveway with the other guys. _

He closed his eyes.

He toyed around with his new lighter when he was finished with their sparse dinner. 

He was once told by a boy, not too long ago, maybe two years, that white lighters were  _ bad luck, trust me, Willy, never use ‘em. _

_ “Why do you have one, then?” _

_ “I’m bad luck’s bad luck.” _

An insufferable boy that called him  _ William  _ and  _ Will  _ and  _ Wet Willy.  _ Back when  _ he  _ was bullied instead of  _ being  _ the bully. An insufferable boy that slammed him up against the brick wall of the school and kissed his fucking brains out. An insufferable boy that fucked him, lit both of their cigs with his  _ white lighter  _ and dumped him the day after, clocking him in the face and kneeing him in the groin and leaving the rest of him to the crowd of students around them. He probably should’ve seen it; the faint look of disgust behind the candy-sweet, fake love in his eyes, drenching pancakes with too much baking soda and too little sugar in syrup. It doesn’t taste any better.

Bad luck will just have to put up with him, then.

A couple more weeks went by. They took longer breaks in gas stations and stores, camping for a few days and jumping back on the road again. Running over, beating, shooting zombies out of their way multiple times during their whole trip. They picked the lock to a storage room in a mall and found a truckload of candy and pop and other, much more important foods, of course. Max freaked out and went around, jumping through the maze of boxes and grabbing a crate of Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups and shaking it around and Billy just marveled at how much joy a person can possibly possess, like,  _ how?  _

He doesn’t understand. He doesn’t understand a lot of things.

The road takes them to Indiana, where they take twenty seconds to stop and rest and rob a mall before a Hoard limps after them from a barred off door being broken down. The falling  _ Starcourt  _ sign gleamed with the sunset and glared on the zombies in the most horror-esque way that Billy almost also screamed. Max dropped a rare untorn and untouched jacket and ran down the stairs, her legs a blur. Billy whipped out his gun and shot a few rounds, but there was just  _ too many,  _ they’re  _ all over the place,  _ they’re practically  _ on top of him- _

“Hey!” Billy had never turned around so fast in his life. His brain and eyes were juggled around so much that he almost didn’t hear the stranger yelling at him. “Hey! Mullet! Down!”

Billy ducked, immediately cowering away from a loud burst of dust and debris raining down everywhere around him. The zombies screeched, backing away in unison as another explosion went off. He took a glance at a bright flash beside him, and realized;

The bombs were  _ fireworks. _

He could have laughed. You know, if not for his head almost being blown off.

When the gurgling noises of the undead ceased, Billy picked his head up and was greeted by a sassy-looking brunette. In her hands, pointed directly at him, was a rifle. “Are you infected?” 

“No,” he choked out, standing up shakily to hold out his arms; his fingernails weren’t black and chipping, his arms weren’t green or gray. The first signs. The brunette nodded brusquely, slung the firearm over her back on its strap, and held out her hand.

“Robin.” He shook it.

“Billy.”

Robin took her hand back and nodded her head towards the lobby, “That your sister?” 

Max was crowded over with two other kids, around her age, all rugged and dirty and too grown up for all this shit. One had his front teeth missing, another--he? She?--was writing in a notebook. 

“Yeah, yeah. She’s my sister.”

Max was talking to a tall, handsome boy, maybe Billy’s age, and he was.

He was.

The first thing about him that caught the eye was his hair; it shot straight up into the air and gave him a few inches of height. He had a kind smile. Hazel hair, hazel eyes.

Billy was already fucked.  _ Shit. _

Robin glanced at him. “You have California plates.” 

“D’you think?”

She shrugged. “Just wonderin’ if you have anywhere to go, is all. Can’t imagine you would want to keep driving your whole life.”

Is this what life is, now? Running, running, running away. Hardly any food and water to go around. Family and friends, if you have any, at risk of dying. Of killing you. You killing them. In just under half a year, Billy felt as if he went through hell and back. In the few more years (months, weeks, days) of his life, is this what it’s going to be like?

He sighed, and Robin’s ears perked. “No. No, I don’t. Have a place to stay.”

Her lips twitched. “Well, mind stayin’ with us?”


	2. Flying Saucers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Billy finds a place to stay and gets attacked, Max makes friends and makes Billy jealous, and he and Steve bond by throwing teacups at trees.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oof, this one was a doozy to write. i just started classes at my new school, and it’s been really stressful lately because of my new job as well, but it’s here. again, there might be a delay for the next chap in this fic or any fic of mine for that matter, because of mental health issues, but writing helps me cope, so. maybe more or less, I can’t predict the future.   
this is going to contain v e r y s l o w burn for these boys.

Driving slowly and quietly to avoid attacks, they gradually made it past a rotting, paint-peeling, broken down sign, greeting you to  _ Hawkins, Indiana.  _ Both cars pulled into the driveway of a small house, surely too small for six people to live in, already with a Pinto and a Blazer parked next to them.

A boy, again, about Max’s age, leapt out of the house with his, mom? They looked nothing alike. The boy had black hair and naturally sharp features, and the woman had brown hair and hunger-pointed cheekbones. 

“El!” The maybe-boy maybe-girl jumped out of the car with the others and ran to the boy and hugged him and, Christ, Billy wanted to know these kids’ names so he can stop calling them  _ a boy  _ and  _ a girl  _ in his mind.

He and Max stepped out of the doors cautiously. Max looked at Billy with confusion, and Billy had the same thought.  _ Who are these people? _

The woman stepped forward and waved to them. “Hi. My name’s Joyce. I’m sure you already know Robin?” At the sound of her name, she came as well. 

“This is Billy and Max,” she said. “And I saved their asses.”

“We can introduce ourselves-”

“Hey, hey,  _ we  _ saved their asses, Robbie.” Stupidly Handsome appeared as well. Robin scoffed, made another remark, and they were both caught in a back-and-forth teasing.

That first day was almost entirely introductions (Stupidly Handsome is S- Seth? Sawyer? Harrington is all Billy remembers), and they’re both tired by the end of it, so they take a couple spare sleeping bags and rest on the floor of the living room. Billy wakes up to Hopper, an ex-cop, nudging his shoulder and telling him that they’re  _ going on a raid, family bonding time, do you wanna join? _

Anything to get his mind off things, Billy reasons, and eats the five-in-the-morning eggs and bacon sizzling in the pan. 

The early air is damp and, being in the middle of the fall, cold. Billy, trapped in a flurry of driving and running and raiding and  _ surviving, _ had never noticed the changing of seasons, the color of the trees and the grass fading from vibrant green to oranges and browns, both colors fitting perfectly with the midwest. It smells fresh and like nature, the crows and sparrows sing. He checks for his gun, knife and lighter on his person before sliding in the car. 

Hopper wasn’t ready yet, but S- Sam? Simon? Stupidly Handsome is in the car with him, lighting a smoke in the palm of his hand and taking a drag. The smoke wafting to the backseat makes Billy want one as well, but he left his cigarettes in the house.

Hopper arrives later, puffing smoke and throwing out the cig before slamming the door. “Don’t smoke in my car,” he said, aiming it at Harrington and taking off down the road.

The raid went pretty successfully. Harrington found some spare coats and blankets for the winter, Billy and Hopper teamed up for the foods and drinks. Hopper said that the winters in Hawkins can be pretty brutal, so they have to stock up before they’re all snowed inside. 

All three grouped back together, nine duffel bags and all, before they hear a noise, and it certainly wasn’t the wind.

_ Thud--clink. _

_ Thud--clink. _

It was almost cartoonish. They all turn in unison to face where the sound is coming from, or in the general direction because they couldn’t see the glass door cracking, bit by bit. 

Hopper cautiously felt for his holster and bent his head. “Both of you, get to the car through the back. Leave the bags.”

“But, Hop, we need-” the door broke. It shattered, raining down in a deafening crash, and thousands of footsteps crawled closer. The zombies groaned and trudged towards them.

“Leave the bags!” Hopper stepped and rounded the corner, immediately being grabbed at with maggoty hands and Billy ran with Harrington. His heart pounded rapidly in his throat, his movements frantic as they raced to the back door.

And when they reached the back door, they froze.

Yet another herd of zombies were grouped around the area, swarming, cloudy dead eyes trained on them and they nervously edged backwards from the glass. Harrington squeezed his bat tighter, tracing his gun just like Hopper just did, and Billy brandished his own out in front of him. 

Them fighting through the crowd was a blur of claustrophobia and painful scratches. They did get to the other side, miraculously, but there was more where that came from.

Finding the car and piling inside, they rolled the windows down and started firing at the zombies from their shelter, gray blood and guts flying everywhere in their wake. 

Billy slammed his finger on the trigger for the millionth time, only for it to click.

Click.

Clickclickclick-

_ No, no, god no please fucking shit. _

He claims this moment in his life to be at fault for being under attack, the events too violent to think straight, so, when he runs out of bullets in the middle of a fucking  _ Hoard  _ of the  _ undead,  _ he says:

“Pretty boy, got any ammo over there?”  _ Pretty boy. What the fuck was he  _ thinking?

Harrington tosses a cartridge in his direction and respond with: “It’s Steve, asshole. Look out for Hopper, he should be out in a minute.”

Thankfully, Hopper saved him from to much awkward communication by being there in a minute.

  
  


Max was immediately drawn to the other kids, and Billy didn’t know if that was a good or bad thing. He supposes, a bad thing, because she became ten times more annoying when she made friends with them. But, deep down, Billy knows that he really really  _ really  _ wants to have that same instinct on making allies that she has because, so far, he hasn’t had any luck.

The only people he’s at least talking to  _ nicely  _ are Joyce and Hopper, who, despite living with each other for the past two years, haven’t realized their obvious feelings for one another. The others try to talk, but he brushes Byers and Wheeler and occasionally Harrington away with insults.

Their encounters run down to nervous glances and dirty looks across the room, after a while. Their interactions become as cold as the weather, yet the first snow hasn’t even arrived.

Except with Steve.

Every time they meet eyes, Harrington stands up and threatens him, or Billy will say  _ What  _ and Steve will say  _ Well, I’m just marvelling at the fact that anyone could be born so ugly. Must have gotten the rotten side of the gene pool,  _ which sends a fist flying at his eye and a Nancy trying to get in between them.

It shouldn’t really affect him the way it does. Billy knows he’s attractive; in highschool, guys wanted to be him and girls wanted to be with him. And insults about his looks normally didn’t bother him. But coming out of Steve’s mouth, they were... _ different?  _ The stab at his ego would fester and get infected and be overall icky, Billy felt icky when Steve insulted him and he didn’t know  _ why. _

But he does know that when he does feel icky, it always goes away when he breaks something or punches someone or cause destruction.

So that’s where Harrington found him. In the middle of a junkyard, throwing discarded wedding china at trees, glass bottles at car remains, anything that was breakable, really.

A plate had shattered when he walked up. “You know, we could use that for the house,” Steve said. “We use so many dishes a day; it wouldn’t be harmful to have some more.”

Billy grunted in response and tossed another plate. Steve sighs and joins him, adjusting a beer bottle until it feels right in his hand and throws it at the tree with force, stained glass bits flying everywhere. Billy chuckled.

“Didn’t know you had a good arm, Harrington,” he teases, putting his hands on his hips and grinning. Steve rolls his eyes and picked up a saucer.

“Played baseball when I was six.” He flung it like a frisbee and it glided, right over the trees in the front, but Billy could hear it when it struck farther away. “Had to quit for highschool basketball.”

Billy grimaced, and if Steve’s saddened face said anything, it was that he missed having a normal life. Wake up, eat breakfast, say goodbye to Dad and kiss Mom on the cheek and head off to boring school and even more boring lectures and two hour long sports practices and coming  _ home. _

Billy’s not totally sure if he’d found a home yet.

He looks down at the rest of the cabinet. It’s total shit, but the remaining teacups and dinner plates only appear chipped at most, so he and Steve carry the rest of the china back into his car and they return to Joyce’s house.


	3. fragile

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Billy and Jonathan bond, and Steve confesses his deepest secret.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is a really short chapter because i don't think that the next chapter really works with this one as one whole chapter; you guys know that feeling? anyway, hope you like this bit of angst and confusing teen stuff, and the next chapter might be out tomorrow since i don't have school.

The next week, Thanksgiving rolled around, and Billy was pretty sure the kids were only acting like they didn’t know there was going to be an actual dinner.

Really, he knew that they were acting, because El had walked up to Hopper and asked  _ what’s Thanksgiving? Why is there gonna be a feast? _

She might be just as messed up as everyone else.

Including Steve. At the bare mention of the holiday he shuts down, turning away and preferring to ask questions rather than answer. Billy really shouldn’t be that concerned over it, hell, he doubts they’re even friends. But when the somber look on his face fades from bored to almost ready to cry, when he interrupts lunch to announce that he’s going out for a smoke, when he comes back his eyes are red-rimmed and clearly have been cried out, Billy wants to hug him. Billy wants to hold him and kiss him and--

_ What. _

_ The fuck. _

_ I don’t want to kiss Steve Harrington no nopety nope nope nope no-- _

Billy Hargrove does  _ not  _ want to kiss Steve Harrington.

The day before Thanksgiving, Billy didn’t sleep last night, but he’s plucking a turkey with Joyce and Nancy, since he has nothing better to do. The latex gloves are uncomfortable, and his fingers keep slipping on the water and blood, but he manages to make Nancy chuckle at one of his jokes, so he thinks that day is a win.

Until it isn’t.

It’s stupid, really. He’s laughing with Joyce as Nancy’s taking a break and drinking some water, his hands tear a feather, his elbow flies out and knocks a cup off the counter, and he freezes. The glass shatters, and Joyce lets out an  _ Ope  _ and offers to clean it, but it’s like Billy is wearing earmuffs.

_ I’ll teach you a fuckin’ lesson, boy, for breaking my shit! _

“...Billy?” Nancy walks closer and laid a hand on his shoulder, and he took a shuddering breath. He wiped his gloved hands together and grits his teeth.

“I’m gonna go out for a smoke.”

He thinks about how  _ stupid  _ this all is when he empties his first pack of cigarettes on the porch. His thoughts wander off to apparently wanting to  _ kiss Steve Harrington  _ when he lights the next and takes a walk in the forest, and when he finishes  _ that  _ pack he’s worrying about stage four lung cancer.

He wouldn’t be, if not for that Byers kid.

“You know, smoking’s bad for you.” Billy turns around, fag loosely held between his lips (unfortunate wording on his part) and sees Jonathan strolling up to his side, oversized hoodie and everything. Billy scoffs.

“What does it matter to you?”

“Maybe I just don’t want any of my friends to die from lung cancer.”

His brain can’t think of a witty comeback when he does a double take. “...Friend?” Jonathan casually crouches down and snaps a shot of tiny frost-covered purple flowers in a large patch. 

“Yeah. We’ve been living in the same house for a little over two months; I sure hope we at least know each other.” He raises an eyebrow as he glances at Billy again. He can feel the stare boring into him. “I’m sorry if that weirded you out at all-”

“Nah, man, it’s fine,” Billy interrupted, slinging a hand around the skinnier-of-the-two’s shoulders and blowing smoke out of the corner of his mouth, “we’re...friends. I suppose.”

Billy thinks he might see the beginnings of a smile spreading across Jonathan’s face when he adjusts his lens to take another picture of a bluebird, and he gets the hint of no-more conversation until they circle back to the house. 

The cigarettes are forgotten until Billy showers and finds them in his pocket.

Before everyone gets their food, Joyce calls out, “Everyone hold hands, come on, Mike, it’s only for a second,” and they pray. It’s such an unusual thing, Billy doesn’t even know what to say; Max has the same expression he must have during the prayer. But Joyce pays no mind and smiles at him nicely. 

“Now, let’s eat. I’m starving.” Will says, before spearing a slice of turkey on his fork and  _ plopping  _ it on his plate. He was usually soft spoken, so Billy was surprised at the words he uttered.

He glanced at Steve.

_ He’s so pale. _

He was gray and skeletal; almost a ghost. His hands trembled when he pushed his chair away and muttered a  _ ‘I’m going out for a smoke’  _ and dipping out the door. No-one noticed, maybe Nancy saw, but she was busy making sure that Jonathan ate enough. The kid was skinny enough as it is.

So Billy decides to do what he vowed himself not to do; he talks to Steve.

He shivers when the wind hits him, but he doesn’t go back inside to fetch a jacket. Instead, he sits by the ghost in the other rocking chair on the porch. Right now, with the gray skies and the dull, dead grass and trees, Steve blends into the haunting scenery so well it’s disturbing.

His thin, bony hand slides away from his lips as he lets out a puff of smoke.  _ Gray gray gray.  _ “What do you need, Hargrove.” It was a statement, deadpan and cold, and it was such a  _ strange  _ thing for Steve to be because, damn, when he’s not being a cheerful babysitter with that  _ fucking  _ crooked smile, he cracks jokes with Nancy and Jonathan and hell, even made Hopper laugh once. In short, Billy’s not buying it.

He flicked on his lighter after popping a cigarette into his mouth like a sucker. “You seem rather depressed, aye there, Harrington?” Steve glares, but breaks the eye contact and mutters something under his breath. Billy puts a hand to his ear sarcastically, “What was that?”

“It’s not my fault it’s Thanksgiving, fucker.” His voice shook, and Billy could’ve sworn that his eyes were tearing up but he wasn’t so sure. He let out another cloudy breath.

Billy blinked and lit his cigarette. “What’s up with Thanksgiving?”

Steve laughed; a humorless, dry laugh that was too painful to watch, even hear. “I  _ hate  _ Thanksgiving. You wanna know why? Ok, ok, I’ll tell you why,” he shifted his position in the chair, a gust of wind rattled the wind chimes, “my parents left on Thanksgiving. Like,  _ left  _ left. For good. Said it was a business trip and never came back. Huh,  _ business trip.”  _ He scoffed, angrily throwing the butt of the fag over the porch railing. “And what makes it worse,  _ so much fucking  _ worse is that it happened, what, ten years ago? Eleven? I’m still not  _ fucking  _ over it. It’s so pathetic, isn’t it?”

Ten years ago. “You were seven?” Billy asked timidly. Steve cocked his eyebrow in surprise. 

“Yeah. Pretty fucked up, I know.” He sighed. “Guess some people just can’t take care of kids, you know? Nancy said once that I have a  _ compulsive need  _ to protect the kids because, well, no-one was there for me. So I have to be around for them.”

Billy nodded.  _ He understood.  _ He really does, but his throat has a lump stuck in the middle of it and his brain is clouded with  _ hug him kiss him to something, you coward!  _ to really say anything else. Steve chuckles.

“I don’t really want to get into that whole mess of psychology, that’s Nancy’s thing. But I guess it makes sense, you know? Sometimes your parents really  _ do  _ have an affect on how you live your life.” 

It was so mournful, such a sober fact that Billy had to freeze, cigarette in hand and the other, a clenched fist. Steve wasn’t the tough guy, Steve wasn’t the soldier. He was fragile, he was delicate, he practically had a  _ Do Not Touch  _ sign stamped on his forehead, and Billy wanted to be with him? To  _ ruin  _ and  _ destroy  _ the only thing he has left? 

He can’t do that. Not to Steve. Not to Steve with his amazing hair and deep, promising eyes and gentle hands and  _ Christ,  _ his  _ sanity.  _ Or what’s left of it.

Billy can’t even come close to touching it. To accidentally bumping into it and letting it fall,  _ shatter,  _ little pieces left for him to pick up and replace and he just  _ can’t. _

_ He doesn’t want to be like his father. _

_ Sometimes your parents really do have an affect on how you live your life. _

Steve abruptly sat up, starling Billy and throwing away his cigarette. Billy let out an indignant whine. “Come on, let’s get some pie; I heard it’s to  _ die  _ for.”

Steve chortled at his own joke, and Billy followed him into the house with a curse.


	4. The Fear of our Hearts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Billy had a weird dream about Steve, and gets nostalgic over his childhood celebration of Christmas. The group gets a dog.

_ His breathing is coming to and from his lungs in short, shallow gasps, but he can’t help that there’s a dick in his ass and hands on his hips, tight enough to leave marks, to bruise.  _

_ Familiar warm brown eyes meet his, Billy runs his fingers through long brown hair and tugs, pulls at the roots and he feels himself moan into a kiss as the movements speed up. One of the strong, large hands move from the grip on his waist to his own cock, stroking, deliciously running along the head and pulling at the foreskin. Billy digs his fingernails into Steve’s scalp and he shouts in response, his hips stuttered into a faster staccato, faster, he leans his head back and his neck is flushed red with almost purple bitemarks and, god, if that isn’t the hottest thing that he’s seen. _

_ They’re both so close, so close, it’s painful. The grip twisting around his dick and Steve pounding into him is almost unbearable, but Billy wants Steve to cum first. He wants to catch a glimpse of the euphoric look on his face when he releases, and all of a sudden it’s happening; Steve stiffens, his cock jumps inside of Billy and his mouth is open in a silent moan. His eyes meet Billy’s own, and Billy cums, oh, god, does he cum so hard.  _

_ When Steve snaps out of his stupor, he chuckles and slides out of Billy’s ass with a wet  _ pop.  _ And he just stands there; at the end of the bed, staring at Billy with an unreadable expression on his face. _

_ “Take a picture, it’ll last longer,” Billy has the guts to say. Steve shoots him a dark look and lets out an even darker chuckle, tossing a towel over his shoulder. _

_ “What makes you think I’d like to take a picture of you?” He cast his eyes up and down, sneering. “Faggot.” _

Billy snaps his eyes open, gasping in the cold air burning his lungs and lies awake in his sleeping bag with a heart about to beat out of his chest and soaked-through boxers. He lies there for a considerable amount of time, back stick-straight and clutching onto his blankets like a toddler until he hears sleepy footsteps around the house and buries himself back into his thin sheets, glancing at the clock and never shutting his eyes until the sun starts to peer out of the trees.

The first snow came a week after Thanksgiving, coating the forest floor in freezing, glittering white powder. It was a nuisance, offering more hiding places for rabbits; which Billy was trying to hunt for.

Hopper had taught him to shoot the turkey, and that was fine. Deer were better.

Nothing prepared him for snow.

Nancy let out a breath that clouded in front of her and rubbed her gloved hands together. “Shit, Indiana weather is gonna kill us before the Undead do.” And just as Billy swiveled his aim to a deer not far off into the trees, Robin cackled and scared it off.

Billy stared at her impatiently. “What?” She said, breathless, “you know it’s true. We’d be better off inside before we freeze our balls off.”

“You don’t even have balls, Robin.”

“Oh, I have more than you’ll ever have, Hargrove.”

Nancy chuckled at their banter and heaved the hunting bag over her shoulder, standing up. “Come on; let’s go somewhere else. Maybe we’ll have better luck.”

Billy scoffed, slinging his gun to the side and clicking the safety on. “It’s not about luck, it’s if Buckley over here decides to shut up once in a while.”

“Hey!” Robin shoved his shoulder, giggling and trudging along with them. “I’m funny. You just don’t have good taste in humor.”

Billy smirked and dropped a handful of snow down her coat.

They came home successfully, lugging around a deer and three rabbits. They were hell to get, what, with the horrible combo of snow and Robin. 

But Hopper congratulated them and Joyce hugged them, so it what they got was good enough. 

It would be funny if it weren’t so sad that the only times Billy felt proud of himself was after the apocalypse; if it could even be called that. It really wasn’t so bad. Zombies didn’t attack them as often as one would think, just when you go to a highly populated or huge area. The Hoards tend to be few and far in between, maybe five or six at a time, but there are always those like the one in the mall,  _ twice.  _ Some never learn.

Then there’s the food. It isn’t all that bad to hunt for animals or scavenge for scraps in stores; but, occasionally, you’d shoot a deer that’s already dead. Robin did that once; the entire flank was black, green and decayed, and she puked her guts out for a solid three days.

No, it’s really not that bad outside of those things.

Especially since it’s going to be Christmas.

Billy faintly remembers the one time they celebrated the holiday; he was five, and his dad was in a particularly good mood. His mom cooked ham and baked cookies and set up the Christmas tree, lights and all, and there were presents. Four presents under the tree, one for his dad, one for his mom, and two for him. He remembers that his mother got something too inappropriate to show to him at the time, but she put on a fake smile and fake giggled and leaned into her husband’s touch with fake flirtatiousness. His dad received a spiffy new gold watch, which he probably pawned for money the next morning.

Billy ripped open his presents, and it was obvious that both were from his mom; his dad didn’t bother to get him anything. The bigger gift was a thick book of Shakespearean writing, poetry by classic authors that he wouldn’t be able to understand until his teenage years. And the second, smaller box, was a necklace, a Mother Mary pendant dangling on the chain.

His father wasn’t religious, or if he was, he was too drunk to say. But his mom was and he remembers her chanting quiet words of prayer, asking, pleading God to take her and her family away from this cruel, cruel man.

Billy doesn’t remember most of it, now. The pendant lies heavily on his chest when he thinks of her, but he never takes it off in favor of keeping her close. Closer than his dad ever will be.

And here Billy was, now seventeen and Christmas was rolling around once again, and these kids were  _ ecstatic.  _ This early in the month there was already a tree, already presents under it, and every day when there was a new one he would see Will or Dustin or Lucas shaking a box around next to their ear, weighing it, trying to guess what it is, and every time the look on Joyce’s face says  _ nope, not it.  _ It’s an amusing thought.

Steve also seems to be happier as well. Billy tries not to stare at him when he wears a salvaged ugly sweater, but he looks so  _ damn fucking  _ cute in it it’s almost impossible to look away. 

_ Billy has a problem.  _

He almost chokes on his water when Max asks the question.

_ “What?  _ Why the  _ fuck  _ would you ask  _ that?” _

She shrugs. “Oh, I’m just good at seeing what’s right in front of me. Now, answer the question;  _ do you like Steve?”  _

Billy scoffed. “No.  _ No.  _ I’m not a  _ fag,  _ Max, and don’t ask me that again unless you want your skateboard in two pieces instead of one.” 

She rolled her eyes, clearly sensing the lack of heart in his threat, the hollow promise that always comes out spontaneously when she does anything remotely annoying.

Max always sees through everything he says; it’s both a blessing and a curse.

It’s early; too early for the sun, apparently, so Billy, Robin and Nancy are traveling through the cold in the dark, weaving around trees and  _ not  _ tripping on rocks.

“Ugh,” Robin groans, sitting on a rock and putting the bag down. It was her time to carry it. “Do we have to do this  _ this  _ early? It’s not even five in the morning yet!”

“Oh, shut it. You’re just complaining because you have the bag.” Billy holds up a finger in the girls’ direction as he crouches down silently, telling them to be quiet.

“Well  _ you  _ aren’t the one with fifty pounds of fucking ammo and food on your back,  _ Nancy,”  _ Robin hisses back. 

Billy takes his aim. “I had it last time,  _ asshat.  _ I swear, you and Steve are the best couple around; you complement each other  _ nicely  _ in levels of asshole.”

Billy takes his shot, and hits directly in the center of the rabbit’s stomach. It twitches, stills, and he walks to pick it up, Robin and Nancy falling not too far behind him.

“Steve and I aren’t dating, dumbass.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

_ God, he hopes that Steve and Robin aren’t dating. _

_ Ha, it’s not like he’d ask him out anyway. _

There’s a knot of houses; an urban neighborhood not too far from the Byers’ house. Well, compared to other areas of this small town. The sign signaling the street name is faded and bent, but it does clearly say  _ Maple Street,  _ and Mike has a dark look on his face as they ride into the driveway.

Max and Lucas don’t help at all, preferring to dawdle around outside and skateboard, and Mike keeps staring into space at random moments, so it’s Billy and Nancy that do all the searching. 

The winter chill settled in already; their breath comes out in fog and there are icicles hanging off the bookshelves. A water leak, a bad one, but they manage to salvage some of the literature. 

Billy finds Nancy in a room, quite possibly a girl’s room, quite possible that that girl was a teenager, sitting on a stool and staring at a vanity mirror. The boxes she packed full with bedding and canned food and books are sitting on the bare mattress, and the once pink-shaded room is a melancholy blue-gray. It’s sorrowful, the way everything in the house looks. 

Empty.  _ Abandoned. _

Gone.

Nancy lets out a cynical chuckle and fiddles with what was once cherry red lipstick, but now more associated with an awfully frozen, awfully dark shade of hideous brown-maroon. “I can’t believe that it’s only been half a year. It’s seems so much longer ago that I was up here, getting ready for a date with Steve.” She looks back into the mirror with a flat expression. “But we aren’t dating anymore, and my mom isn’t here to yell at me to come down to dinner and my dad isn’t here to tell me good luck. Mike doesn’t even talk anymore, barely, at least.”

_ And suddenly it all makes sense.  _ Billy nods solemnly. “Guess that comes with an apocalypse.” 

Nancy doesn’t say another word. 

And they sit there, in the silence and the cold and the gray.

_ It’s not peaceful, exactly. Not really. It’s quiet, yeah; and calm. But it gets to the point where it’s lonely, even with people around. Like you’re closed off from the world and you know it. Sometimes not knowing is worse, though. Imagine everyone all of a sudden just, not talking to you? Acting like you weren’t there? And you would, like, you know, try and try and try to talk to them but they just don’t hear you? _

_ That shit would fucking suck, man. _

“Guys! Hey, guys! Come in here,  _ come on,  _ we found something!”

Dustin slams the front door closed as everyone in the house walks into the living room and gasps, almost in perfect unison as they stare at the  _ dog.  _

A huge fucking dog in the middle of the house. 

Billy almost drops his coffee.

“Uh, Dustin?” Lucas steps forward and raises his eyebrows. “What the  _ hell  _ is that?”

“It’s a dog, asswipe,” Dustin respond, rubbing the dog’s stomach as it rolls over. It’s tongue lolls out of its mouth. “I’ve named her Daisy.”

“Like the flower?”

“What other daisy do you know of? Yeah, like the fucking flower!”

_ “Hey,”  _ Hopper interrupts with his  _ I’m-a-big-bad-scary-cop  _ voice, “language, Henderson. Not around Jane.”

Eleven/Jane snorts. 

Lucas waves his arms around and stammers for a bit before talking. “Daisy is such a wimpy name,” he said. “What about-- Spike? Or Boomerang! Boomerang’s a good name, right?”

Dustin’s nose wrinkles. “Have you  _ ever  _ watched a zombie apocalypse movie? One of the main characters  _ always  _ as a big scary dog that has, like, the softest name imaginable. That’s why she’s Daisy.”

Billy turns back to his room chuckling, and Jonathan sends him a silent look of agreement. 

Daisy turns out to be a good asset to the group. They teach her to be a hunting dog for two weeks with steadily growing progress. Being the great dane that she is, every morning she clambers on top of Max, licking her face and effectively waking her up at five a.m. on the dot. The first time it happened Billy came back from his hunting trip with the girls and was greeted by a sour-faced Max brandishing a cup of coffee almost like a weapon. He couldn’t help but crack up at her look, a down-turned and furious but adorable scowl on her eleven year-old face.

She also tends to jump on them when they come back to the base from a raid or a hunt, knocking them down with enough force to bulldoze an elephant. 

She’s a good dog. 

_ Noah hands him the blunt, and in his weed-induced state he barely manages to give it to him without burning his hand. _

_ “You ever think about gettin’ a dog someday?” He asked, as James retches in the background. “Think about gettin’ a dog and a family and livin’ a happy, golden life like the people in the movies, Willy?” _

_ Billy nods. Noah laughs, pulls him closer; he smells like old money and expensive cologne from somewhere like France or Germany or Russia, smells like rich old men that spend their days at casinos and win poker games, betting a thousand, a million dollars. He smells more valuable than Billy and all of his relatives combined, and Noah is magnetic. Noah treats him like his equal, and he loves that, but he also loves when he calls him his little bitch and his nasty, wolf-fanged grin is as infuriating as it is exhilarating. _

_ Noah pulled Billy’s lips to his own in a wrangling of teeth and tongue, not even a kiss, and he  _ loved  _ it. _

_ (Billy never realizes that he tends to gravitate towards the worst of people until his sophomore year, when it’s too late and everything’s over and done) _


	5. Protection

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> billy makes a huge mistake. daisy got bit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is a short chapter- and here's why: i don't know anything of what i want in the next chapter, but i know what i want in the beginning, and this chap is gonna have to end this way to ensure this.  
that being said, i am truly sorry for not posting in, like, a month. school's been beating my ass. but i found the time to get this up, so, yey, i guess. hahaha.

‘Tis the day of Christmas, the children are asleep in their beds, and Hopper made Robin, Jonathan, Nancy, Steve and Billy all wake up and take a trip to the mall; “More hands, more guns. We’re better off that way.”

Robin spends their time in the car complaining, moaning and groaning about the  _ cold,  _ and the  _ time,  _ and  _ are we there yet? Are we there yet? Are we there yet? _

Sometimes, Billy just really wants to  _ strangle  _ her.

“Ugh, why do we have to get  _ more  _ presents? It’s Christmas, it’s early, and I just wanna have hot chocolate and cookies but  _ no-ooh,  _ no, I  _ don’t  _ get that because I’m a  _ responsible adult  _ and I have to take care of the little  _ shits  _ back home, and  _ they don’t need more fucking presents, Hopper.” _

It was quiet for a moment, the air tense, and Steve cleared his throat from the front seat. “Hey, those little shits are the little shits that we have to protect from literal death, so,” he said, trailing off. “Yeah. So get some more presents for them, Robin; I heard you worked at the mall before everything collapsed.”

The tension came back.

“Well, that doesn’t mean that I know where the good toys are, Stevie.”

Their search was fruitless; as was expected. But they spent the two hour trip gathering more ingredients for cookies and cakes and brownies. For the kids.

Daisy almost caused Hopper to drop everything when he walked through the front door, pouncing up on him and everyone else beside him. Steve grinned; his hair was disheveled and his cheeks had a pink hue from the cold, and he looked amazing. Billy found himself staring too many times.

While Nancy, Joyce and Steve were in the kitchen, the kids were being supervised by Hopper in the living room. They had opened their presents right as they walked into the house.  _ Max was truly happy here. Huh, irony, isn’t it? _

Robin cornered him when he was straightening his bed-sheets for the fifth time, compulsively.

“You like Steve,” she said. Billy froze.

“The fuck you say that for, Buckley?”

“‘Cause I know.” His blood turned to ice, but he didn’t let Robin see that. He stood up fully and looked away from her.

“You, don’t know  _ anything,”  _ he hissed, his teeth clenched, a little to close to hitting something for comfort. He heard Robin swallow.

“Well, I don’t think I’m wrong, Billy-”

_ “I’m not one of them, Robin, okay?  _ I’m  _ not  _ a-a-a, a  _ girl,  _ and I’m not a  _ sissy,  _ and I’m  _ not  _ a  _ faggot.”  _ Spit flew out of his mouth as he said,  _ cursed  _ the words out, intending them to be a threat. Possibly more. Intending to chase away the  _ disgusting  _ butterflies in his stomach when Steve smiles or laughs or even fucking  _ breathes.  _ Attempting to make sure that no-one asks him the same question again. Trying to grapple his life back into order, instead of the out of control spiral it’s going down.

Instantly, Robin’s face turns into a dark scowl, darker than an oncoming hurricane. “Well, go ahead and tell that to Steve, wontcha? Are you  _ fucking blind!?  _ He  _ loves  _ you, Billy! And you,” he didn’t realise she was close enough to poke his chest harshly,  _ “you  _ are such a  _ dumbass.  _ You’re a bigoted asshat and I wish that Steve didn’t like who he likes because, of all people,  _ you don’t deserve him.  _ You don’t deserve someone as genuine as Steve because,  _ Christ,  _ he  _ really  _ can’t take another person leaving him. Not after his parents, and not after Nancy.” Her voice had softened down to a whisper; she sighed. “Just,  _ please,  _ don’t hurt him. I don’t think he can take it.”

Robin left Billy with an empty room and ruffled bed sheets.

_ There are only a few times in his life that made Billy feel physically sick. That his eyes would melt out of their sockets, dripping down his face. Puking up tar and wanting to put a bullet in his head to make it all stop. _

_ That kind of sick. _

Billy can’t even look at Steve anymore. He feels himself breaking down every time they meet eyes. Sometimes he feels like he can’t breathe; sometimes he actually can’t breathe. 

Something is falling apart and he can’t control it. 

The hunt was stiff and awkward, Billy’s and Robin’s face as stony and cold as the ground under the snow. Nancy was just trying to get by without setting both of the gasoline-soaked demons on fire, and she somehow succeeded. 

It might’ve been their floating minds, or something else, but they didn’t catch anything that day. The disappointment in Hopper’s face and voice was clear and unmasked. Billy kinda wants to kick himself.

“Uh, Hop?” Dustin walked up to him, Lucas, Will and Daisy in tow. Billy turned around. “Hop, can you look at this for a sec? It’s Daisy. She- she doesn’t look so good. She got bit, right here.” 

He pointed to a gray, almost green, spot on the back of Daisy’s neck. It looked like it was eating up the flesh. The fur was almost black, a tar-like pus oozing sickeningly out of it.

It looked like it was  _ rotting.  _

Daisy peered up at Dustin with sad, wide brown eyes. Hopper turned to Billy and grimaced; he knew exactly what to do.

“You wanna do it, or should I?”

They all gathered in the backyard. Joyce was hugging a teary-eyed Will to her side; Jonathan standing stiffly to the other. Mike was standing a bit closer to the dog, hugging himself in the two jackets that he was wearing. Dustin and the other kids were crowded around Daisy; Dustin in the center. Saying their goodbyes. All of them were in a stage of crying, a waterfall, or bone dry. 

Dustin was bawling his eyes out.

Eventually, Hopper pulled them all away- kicking and screaming. He led them all to the house. Billy tried to match his breathing with Steve’s, but Steve was crying and breathing too harshly and  _ panicking.  _

Steve pulled at Robin’s sleeve, and they went back inside too. Jonathan, Nancy, and Joyce followed. 

Hopper clicked the safety off and tipped the muzzle in Billy’s direction. “You wanna go inside, kid?”

Billy shook his head.

He aimed, right between Daisy’s sad, sad,  _ sad  _ eyes. Hollow eyes. Her tail wasn’t wagging anymore. Her breathing was slow, sluggish. Almost nonexistent.

Hopper aimed, and he fired. The bullet rang out across the empty, snowy field.

Billy didn’t bat an eye.

“Hey, man.”

It seemed as if everything wouldn’t stop being cold and gray outside. Granted, it was still January. The cold and the gray and the  _ dead  _ just made Steve look worse.

He looked tired. The dark rings had darker rings under his eyes. He looked too vulnerable, curled up on the couch, wrapped tightly in a quilt. Protection, that’s what it is. Steve was protecting himself.

He was still. “Why are you here?” He asked.

“I’m- I want to make sure you’re alright-”

“Yeah, well,” Steve was in motion, standing up with the blanket and walking past him. “You shoulda thought about that  _ before  _ you talked with Robin, yeah?”

Billy’s heart fell all the way down, deep into his stomach, and cracked. 

_ He needed a fucking drink. _

  
  
  



	6. Life Goes On

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> billy falls asleep in a gas station, and restores his shaky friendship with steve. spring comes faster than they expected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> end of book one.

So that’s how he found himself in a gas station refrigerator. He hadn’t had a drink for so long, it was like he was drowning in salt water or wandering in the desert for the past seven months instead of wanting to die.

The liquor burned  _ oh so  _ deliciously down his throat; he can only imagine what harder stuff would do. Singe a hole in his chest? Right where his heart would be. 

Ever since it fell it hasn’t came back up.

It doesn’t really matter, though. Billy likes to feel empty. Billy likes to smoke and drink and drive fast without feeling the consequences because he can’t  _ handle  _ feeling  _ any  _ of it. He likes to feel empty because he can use it as an excuse to do bad things. He likes to kill himself without the nasty side effects of doing so-  _ dying,  _ for one.

It’s like he’s in this perpetual state of  _ wanting to die  _ and  _ wanting to live.  _ He can’t decide.

He’s never really been good at deciding. Not really.

_ Noah hands him a pill and says, “One of the side effects is dying; just so you know. If you wanna. It gives you the best high ever, man, I’m telling you.” He smiles cruelly. _

He never really chose to take it in the first place, but here we are.

Maybe the drugs were a metaphor of some kind. Wanting to get high, while also not being arrested. Or killed. 

Billy feels the lowest that he’s ever been. And it fucking  _ sucks.  _

Noah’s slurred speech lulls him to sleep. A deep,  _ deep  _ sleep.  _ Billy’s so fucking tired, oh my god.  _

Billy wakes up alone, in the gas station. 

There are no zombies, no people threatening his existence.

Nothing.

He sighs. The empty bottles surrounding him all make a  _ clink-clink-clink  _ noise when he stands up. He groans; serious hangover. He kinda wishes that there had been somebody there to blow his brains out. 

Maybe he wouldn’t have to do it himself, if that were the case.

Everything’s so dull and gray and  _ cold,  _ he wishes he was still in California.  _ Stay sunny, sunshine.  _ He shivers and pulls the jacket in tighter around him.  _ Protection.  _

He decides to stay. 

He finds a crappy composition notebook (you know, the little, travel-sized ones?) and a blue pen among the rubble and starts to write.

He’s always been good with writing. His mother used to say that he has a  _ gift,  _ whatever that meant. 

He writes about this; the apocalypse. The Undead. The empty towns and the cold gray  _ dead.  _ He writes about Max. Mike and Nancy, how he thinks that it’s really fucking  _ sad  _ and  _ heartbreaking  _ it is that they lost their entire family. Jonathan and Hopper; how he  _ knows  _ that they don’t sleep. Robin, how fucking  _ loud  _ and  _ nosy  _ she is. Will and Jane, how quiet they are, how he thinks that something happened to them. Dustin and Lucas and Daisy. Joyce and the look of pride on her face when he does something  _ good. _

There is no shortage of what he writes about Steve.

His hair,  _ god,  _ his eyes, even. The way he laughs and the way he cries and the way that he’s so cold when he’s angry. His arms- his  _ hands- his mind.  _ How much Billy wants to punch his parents’ lights out because they left the brightest thing imaginable. How he wants to punch  _ himself  _ for leaving the brightest thing imaginable. He doesn’t get how Nancy left him, he doesn’t get how  _ together  _ Steve is, he wants to talk to him and work things out and  _ hug him,  _ for Christ’s sake! 

Around the part where he describes what he did and why he did it, Billy starts to cry. 

It’s as if the entire thing all of a sudden crashed down on him all at once. The whole thing. He cries,  _ bawls  _ his eyes out, wants to tear at them and scream. Wants to crack his head open because how  _ dare  _ it betray him and his right to bottle his emotions? Billy wants  _ Steve,  _ goddamnit. How is that too hard to ask for?

_ Because he was too stupid to realise that Steve liked him back. _

_ And now he doesn’t.  _

_ He never will. _

Of all the lost chances, Billy wanted that last one back. If he could only have one. 

Billy must’ve fallen asleep- dozed off in the middle of his notebook, because it was dark out when he opened his eyes next.

That, and there were headlights shining in his face.

And feet by his head.

He nearly jumped out of his own skin. “Jesus  _ fucking  _ Christ, holy shit! Who- who the fuck?!” He stood up quickly, grabbing the book and shoving it in his pocket. An exhausted and rather disheveled-looking Steve Harrington was standing in front of him, drowning in a hoodie with his hands hidden in the sleeves; he wasn’t wearing gloves. Or snowboots. 

Fuck, not even a  _ hat.  _

“The fuck? You wanna deathwish, Harrington?”

His teeth chattered. “N-n-no, I-I d-d-d-don’t. J-Just g-g-get in the f-f-fucking c-car, it’s-s c-cold.” He pulled at Billy’s shoulder and walked back to the car. His own shoulders shook terribly, his skin was blue around his lips.

Once they were in the car, Steve just sat in the driver’s seat and cupped his fingers over the vent to warm them up. Billy sighed and shuffled out of his jacket.

“Hey, here,” he said, handing out the jacket. Steve had a puzzled look on his face. “Just, take the jacket, okay? It’s cold, and you’re only wearing a hoodie, so. Here.”

Steve shook his head. “Why? I mean,” he shrugged, “a f-few days ago you j-just hated my g-guts. I guess, I just, d-don’t u-understand?” Steve shrugged again and closed his eyes.

Billy rested his arm holding the jacket on the center console. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, okay? I shouldn’t have, have said those things. It’s just really, really  _ hard.  _ It’s hard to deal with. I can’t, I can’t  _ tell you.” _

Steve nodded, his eyes still closed. “I get it.” His voice is barely above a whisper, just barely above the engine rumbling. “I  _ get it.  _ I know, Billy, it’s just, this whole  _ thing.  _ I can’t live with it. I guess that I, wanted a distraction?” He took a sharp breath. “But you’re not just a distraction! You are, you are so much more than that to me, and I,” he shoved his face into his hands, trying to explain, “and I ruin it. I ruin everything, and I’m the one that should be sorry, okay?

“So I’m sorry, Billy. I’m sorry that I  _ trapped  _ you in a situation that you didn’t want to be in, and I’m sorry that you don’t wanna be with me and I told you that I wanted to be with you and I made it all… weird.”

Billy…

Billy wanted to laugh, honestly.

But he didn’t. He didn’t laugh. He didn’t laugh or cry or any of that stupid shit that he thought he was gonna do.

He just nods and takes the apology; and almost forgets his jacket on the console. “You still want the jacket, Harrington?”

Steve glares, and his playful mood that Billy  _ really really fucking missed  _ (if only for a few days) is back, and he mutters, “Fine, I’ll take the damn jacket, Hargrove.”

Billy laughs, and when Steve slips it on he slaps a hand on the dash. “Alright, let’s go somewhere, yeah? Home?”

Steve gives him a strange look, but changes the gear and starts to back out of the parking lot. Billy huffs. “Why do you still park into places? It’s not like we have to; not like you’re gonna get a ticket.”

“Hopper’s still a cop, Billy.”

_ “Bullshit.  _ That isn’t an excuse.”

And, so, life goes on. 

It’s less tense between Billy and Robin now; he can only assume that Steve had explained what had happened. 

Steve was doing better. He wasn’t as tired anymore, not at all like the version he saw on the couch, huddled up. Protected. He was getting better. 

That being said, it doesn’t mean that Billy doesn’t sometimes wake up to go to the bathroom in the middle of the night and overhear Robin or Nancy or Jonathan or perhaps two or all three of them trying to get a panicking, weeping Steve to sleep. 

Billy knows that Steve doesn’t fully trust him yet for him to do that. Besides; the other three do it just fine.

February comes and goes, a strange transition period between spring and winter, when there are warm days and, yet, there are days where you feel as if you’re fingertips will freeze off. That’s how cold it gets.

Billy misses California.

Then comes March, and all is alright again. Joyce and Jonathan have taken it upon themselves to plant some food; tomatoes and beans and eggplant and carrots and potatoes. And a few other vegetables. There’s an orchard, not too far from Indianapolis, and they’ve been taking oranges and apples and pears not only to eat, but to plant as well. 

It would be nice to eat something other than packaged and pre-made food. And Twinkies. Billy  _ hates  _ Twinkies. 

Spoiler alert; they don’t have an endless shelf life. That was a lie, and they all knew it, we all know it, everybody knows it.

Billy’s getting better. Less and less does he wake up sweating in the middle of the night, seldom does he threaten Max anymore. 

He hopes that Steve sees that he’s trying. 

Steve holds his hand for the first time in April.

And that makes everything okay for a little bit.


End file.
